Of Indigo Sweaters and Unfriendly Cleats
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: Sticks and stones will definitely break your bones. Cursing, violence, homophobia, etc.
1. Teenage dreams in a teenage circus

"_Your lashing out at me is fantastically compelling and inappropriate."_

-Kurt Hummel

* * *

Kurt Hummel had never wanted to grow old, anyway.

The entire idea of it-wrinkly skin, aching bones, multiple internal ailments that all seemed to end in one sort of bodily function or another-had always made him shiver.

There was nothing, now or ever, in the Dior catalogue that would _ever_ match liver spots.

That was what he told himself.

Again.

And.

Again.

"Lookit the little fag cry," this big, apish looking fellow barked in his ear and he was greeted with boisterous laughter from his gorilla pals. It's not as if they were being cruel-no, Kurt had realized the moment he'd set eyes on the herd that they were drunk out of their senses and had no idea the sheer _destruction_ they were inflicting upon Kurt's new outfit. Blood stains and the like, you know.

He clutched onto the pavement so hard his fingernails cracked, gritting his teeth _man up _as a shot of pain flared through his burning ribs, the familiar bumps of a football cleat tearing into his Calvin sweater and is it so horrible that Kurt was crying more for the soft indigo fabric then his own shattered bones? Is it really so horrible? Because to Kurt, is was a very sane line of thought amongst a sea of chaotic cries of agony.

Blood was bitter. Anyone who'd ever bitten their tongue could tell you that. Coppery, like a penny or a bronze chain (of which he had, in his vanity drawer, with a long tacky peace sign his mother had owned). But not a lot of people could vouch for _a lot _of blood, spitting out your nostrils and sliding down your throat and filling your lungs with thick globs in such great amount that you don't know if you can take your next breath. Not many people, Kurt thought.

None that he knew.

"_God!" _he cried, because cleats hurt and kicking hurt and spitting and name calling and punches and slaps and _all the yelling _hurt. It was an imperfect blend of his screams and their drunken laughter and it was so consuming that eventually his screams died in his throat and he waited for something to happen. For someone to walk along, for his hero to smack a bitch, for the great white light, for something. He waited and he thought how at least this would diminish all chances of him growing that first wrinkle and would save him a helluva lot of dye when his hair went gray.

The worst of it was that this was because he had worn that indigo Calvin sweater and because his jeans were maybe a little too tight and his voice had never seemed to drop and like he could help it. Maybe he could. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

"Take it like a man you little fairy," one snarled, picking him up by his hair and breathing in his face, enough for Kurt to smell absolutely no alcohol on him. Meaning the bastard was in a completely stable sense of being and he would not regret his actions while nursing a hangover the next day, which made Kurt sick. Literally, he blew chunks all over the same pair of cleats that had ruined him.

A cry of anguish matching his own split his head in two and the hand that held his hair brought it down into the concrete and Kurt saw stars. Barbara and Liza and Judy and Gaga and Cher and Bette, all the beautiful people he dreamt of singing besides and he thought, that's not a bad thought to go by.

There was a sudden screech of tires through the dusk and a final splash of liquid seared his open cuts and the cleats ran off and Kurt watched them with his head turned. He couldn't feel relief because his head was _pounding_ and his new jeans were ruined, just ruined.

"Yeah, you run, fucking fags!"

Kurt flinched at the word (which had never been his favorite, but after this instance would probably be upped to most hated in the English language) as he saw two pairs of grimy sneakers run in opposite directions-one away, one closer. He tensed and tried to pull himself up.

"Jesus Kurt," said the very familiar and very welcoming voice of Finn Hudson. Kurt only being held up by his skinny and shaking elbows, coughing as the blood drained from his throat and dripped down his neck. "Jesus, shit."

"Eloquently said," Kurt quipped, his surprisingly greasy bangs falling over his eyes and giving his eyes a break from the unforgiving headlights and dim dusk sun.

"Little bitches ran off," Noah Puckerman cursed from across the school parking lot, gradually drawing closer as Finn wrapped his arms under Kurt's armpit. He was greeted with a pained grunt.

"No, wait, no," he gasped, slumping back down and hugging his arms tightly to his throbbing ribcage. "Wait…"

"Shit, should we call an ambulance or something?" Finn's voiced was frantic, his hands flying all over the place for lack of anything more productive to do. Clearly cracking under pressure, as Kurt always suspected he would. Boys were like that sometimes.

Kurt tried to keep his breath steady, tried to keep his tunnel vision, well, not tunneling, and all he could think of was his dad and the look on his face when he found out. It was be horror, it would be anger, sorrow, shame. No, no ambulance.

"Don't," he coughed, pulling himself up against until he had one heel to the ground and one arm clinging desperately to Finn's shoulder, "Please don't."

"Shit, now's not the time to drop the high maintence act, Hummel," Puck barked from somewhere towards Kurt's left, "Have you looked at yourself?"

Kurt shot the frostiest look he could muster without his skin cracking, "Sorry, I left my reflective heels at home."

Finn was half pulling and half dragging Kurt towards Puck's car, and he was saying something like they were driving to the hospital and open the goddamn door, Puck and he's going to kill those bastards and Kurt's voice, full yet weak, quipped, "They were drunk, they didn't mean it."

And there was more yelling and Kurt wanted to cry.

**A/N Um, so yeah. This was going to be longer but I'm tired. I'll probably write more later. Hope you, y'know, like it. There won't be slash in this one, because I don't think anyone on the show is gay but Kurt and I don't have the creative power to think up some OC. Enjoy?**


	2. running around like a clown on purpose

"We're just trying to live, if anyone would let us."

-_The Virgin Suicides _byJeffrey Eugenides

* * *

Puck's car. Was. Disgusting.

"That doesn't even look like it _used _to be edible," Kurt hissed, dragging himself across the duct-taped leather seats and away from the maroon colored lump of would-be hamburger meat.

"Shouldn't you be barfing up blood or something?" was Puck's retort, turned a sharp corner as the last of the sunlight left the sky and the strip of Lima store fronts colored the streets. Kurt decided this was a valid question, because he could barely see himself through the rear view mirror and all he saw was pale skin covered in blood-not movie blood, not Technicolor or anything. Deep red, almost black like Kurt's very heart and burst through his pores in messy streams of jell-o.

And Kurt _felt _it too, even when Finn had shoved his lettermen jacket in his face and allowed him to wipe the worst of it from his eyes. Felt the crusted life ruining his complexion, making him into something gruesome, a walking horror film. It didn't suit him well.

He saw Finn pull his phone out from the front seat. "Who are you calling?"

"Your dad," he said.

"_No_." Kurt leaped for the phone, ignoring the _throbbing stabbing burning _in his chest that shot through every other tendon he couldn't think of even though he had an anatomy quiz on Monday. He again thought of his father and he thought of the sheer _rage_ in his eyes when Finn had let loose a couple '"faggy"s. It wouldn't be a pleasant conversation to take part in.

The sudden movement caused Puck-an already haphazard driver-to jerk the wheel and nearly fly the car off the road. "Yo, watch it."

Finn said, "The hospitals gonna call him anyway-"

"_We're not going to the hospital_!"

Puck slammed his hand against the wheel, "Damn it, Hummel, will you sit down before we total."

It was now that Kurt realized he was almost completely leaning over the front of the car, holding the phone away from Finn's ear and dripping blood over his grey t-shirt.

And, oh.

He let out a kind of grunt as he fell back against the seat, clutching his ribs and closing his eyes. "Don't go to the hospital. Just…just take me home."

Whether out of general concern or fear of another outburst, neither Puck nor Finn protested, and Kurt heard the phone snap shut.

The Hummel home was dark, but for one singular light radiating from the living room. Kurt looked on with dread from the back window and Puck pulled in at an awkward sixty degree angle, killing the gas with a rather forceful twitch. He turned around. "Lemme look at you."

Kurt backed away from the larger boy's hands; not because of some PTSD symptoms, more because they were the same hands that were usually thrashing him into a pile of garbage.

As if reading his mind, Puck scoffed. "Shit, Hummel, there ain't nothing to throw you in."

Kurt swatted him away and fumbled with the door. "Your concern is touching, but I can assure you I won't be bleeding out in your car-"

As he opened the door and flung one foot out, Finn told him, "We're gonna beat those fucks into the ground. Just so you know." He paused. "Are you sure your okay?"

"It's nothing that I can't handle."

Which was a lie, because this was worse then a ripped Gaga outfit and old spaghetti stains on his Marc Jacobs jacket, because he'd never bled this much in his life and he'd never been this dizzy or this sore, but he'd also never been this frantic to get out of a car before.

But his words seemed to cut Puck like a knife. He became uncomfortable and made a show of clearing his throat.

Finn turned fully so that he was facing Kurt, who twisted his face into a mixture of boredom and impatience. He wasn't sure how convincing he was just then, but there it is.

"Listen," Finn said quietly, "I'm sorry about what happened the other day."

Kurt stiffened. "It's alright."

"No, it's not." He breathed out heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Your dad was right. Shit like that…I don't want to be like those guys and I was and I used to be and…I'm really fucking sorry, Kurt." His words were rushed, like he was spitting them out the moment he thought of them. Kurt couldn't be sure what he was apologizing for-calling his décor faggy? his football buddies ripping him a new one?-but he liked the sound of it and left the car with his words ringing in his ears.

* * *

"Oh my god."

He tried, he really did, to make off swiftly towards his room. A ninja Kurt Hummel was not.

And if Kurt Hummel was not a ninja, Burt Hummel was a bear with tap shoes. And bat-like hearing, it would seem.

"What happened to you?" Burt barked, stomping over to his sun and clutching his chin in his hand. His skin had gone pale his eyes were sort-of-shocked-sort-of-pissed, the same way he'd look at Kurt when he'd ask for a Barbie doll when he was younger.

"Nothing, dad," Kurt said, turning his head and inching closer towards the hall.

"Does nothing have a fist?"

Kurt sighed and kept walking, avoiding Burt's eye.

"You tell me the bastards who did this, Kurt, and I'll-"

"_Dad_," Kurt cried, "I just got into a fight, okay? It's not a big deal-"

"Is that why it took you four hours to come home-"

"-I had glee club-"

"-and don't you pull that fight crap because I know how those kids are-"

"-and it's fine and-"

"-and have you looked at yourself-"

"-it looks worse then it is-"

"-do you think this is _okay_, Kurt? _Do you think this is okay_?"

"_Look_," Kurt said sharply, his hand between his eyebrows and his other folded at his side, "I was out of the school and they were _drunk_ and they shoved me around and its _fine_, dad. It's not like I'm not used to it."

The words were like a slap to Burt who, to Kurt's knowledge, stayed blissfully unaware of the extent of Kurt's unpopularity amongst the more brutish circles. And in all honesty, there was no need-it had never escalated past dumpster dives and the occasional shove in the hallway. But the entire meaning behind it was getting old, to be frank; yes, we get it, you're a boisterous frat boy with severe sexuality issues. No need to take it out on the less muscularly blessed.

"Does your principal know about this?" Burt demanded, "Does-Kurt, your bleeding."

It was then Kurt felt the slow trickle of blood run down his temple, and the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo (a purely physiological effect, Kurt deducted).

Burt picked up a dirty dish towel and squeezed it to his son's forehead. "Did you walk home like this?"

"No, ah-" pain stabbed through Kurt's neck and down his spine, "-I got a ride."

"From who?"

"Some guys from glee-_dad!"_

He wasn't sure what had happened, but a sudden flame was ignited in his chest and he had to stumble into the bathroom and throw his head in the toilet in less then a blink to keep projectile vomit off the carpet.

* * *

**A/N Um I seriously have no idea where this is going and I am totally in hate with those last few paragraphs but I just bought the cutest dress and this guy said I had pretty eyes on face book so I'm good =) **


	3. Who gives a damn about the family

_No one deserves this feeling. You know what the worst part is, it's not the burning in your eyes, or the way the slushie drips all the way into your underpants, it's the humiliation. I feel like I could burst into tears at any moment. _

-Puck

* * *

It's not really the throwing up, or the pain. It's the humiliation of going through all these things with your football playing father screaming and pounding at the door your keeping closed with the heal of your designer boots, the further humiliation that you both know this is only because your too damn gay to run off a few drunk jocks. You know?

A final upheaval of some kind of bile slides down Kurt's throat and he's positive he has nothing left to offer the toilet gods. So he flushes and leans back against the off-white tiled wall. There are bloody handprints on the porcelain.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Burt shouted, "I'm going to break this door down and call an ambulance because _you are not okay, Kurt_."

Kurt wondered, in complete clarity, if any football players were able to speak at a reasonable level.

He pulled his foot away from the door (which didn't have a lock, god knows why) and let his father barge in. Its obvious Burt Hummel had no plans past this point, because all he did was look down at his sun, some strange platter of concern and rage and pity (but mostly rage) etched on his face. Kurt slumped over the toilet. "My stomach hurts," he said flatly, just to fill the silence.

Burt still held the bloody dish rag in his fist. "We're going to the hospital," he said.

Kurt scowled down at himself. "Fine."

Burt clasped one large huge giant paw on Kurt's shoulder and his son jumped because, okay, maybe he did had a little PTSD, but it's only been an hour.

Kurt wavered as he walked down the hall, out the door and into his father's truck. And as Burt did the same, he said in a completely steady tone, "You don't deserve this, Kurt. No one does."

* * *

"Shit, how about Hummel, huh?"

Puck said this as he and Finn leaned against the hood of his car, sipping at a slushie. (which he never realized how good they were, since he only ever got a few slurps before some loser walked by with a face that begged to be iced. He really was a giver.)

Finn was looking down at his bloody tshirt, his bloody letterman, his bloody hands. "You think we should've taken him to the hospital or somethin'?"

"Nah, man," Puck scoffed, "I've had worse at morning practice."

"But did you see all that blood?"

"Head wounds bleed a lot. He's probably fine."

But Puck didn't believe himself, because he felt guilty as hell for just dumping the little fag at his house when he'd practically bled out in his back seats. What was he gonna do, pin him to the leather? It would've just made it worse. It wasn't even his business anyway.

There was a long period of silence before Finn spoke again, "Were we ever like that?"

Puck spoke through his straw, "Like what?"

"Like those guys," he said softly, "Azimo and 'em. We never, you know?"

Puck looked down and shook his head. "Not that bad. 'specially not you. You weren't even down for dumpster diving."

Another long stretch of silence. "No one deserves what Kurt got."

Puck nodded. "Fucked as hell, man."

Pause.

"We're kicking Azimo's ass."

"Oh yeah."

**A/N WHERE AM I GOING WITH THIS? I have no clue.**


	4. you come from?

_"Sometimes being special sucks." _

_-Will Schuester_

* * *

"Did you see them?" Burt asked as they drove down the street. "Gimme some names and I'll report their asses so fast-"

"Could you not?"

"Why not?" Burt growled, "Why the hell not, Kurt? Your just letting these bastards-"

"_Can we not have this conversation right now_?"

It was then Burt noticed his son was doubled over as much as his seat belt would allow, looking as though he were about to throw up his intestines. Crusted blood was still visible down the collar of his sweater.

"Okay, alright," Burt gave, focusing on the road. He gritted his teeth.

* * *

The next day in glee club, there was a noticeable absence in the choir room.

"Where's Kurt?" Tina asked.

"And Finn?" asked Rachel.

"And Puck?" asked Quinn.

Mr. Shue gathered his sheet music and passed it around, "Well, we can't wait around for them. Artie, you'll take over Finn's part…"

* * *

Mercedes texted Kurt:

_where u at?_

Kurt texted back:

_home sick_

Rachel texted Finn:

_r u ok? ur never sick._

Finne texted back:

_taking care of some business. c u in glee 2marrow._

Santana texted Puck:

_wanna kno wat im wearing?_

Puck texted back:

_l8er._

* * *

Kurt had a minor concussion and a cracked rib.

"Why didn't those idiots think of driving you to the hospital to begin with?" Burt raged, sitting beside Kurt's bed as the sun gently rose over Lima.

"I asked them not to," Kurt sighed, leaning back against the uncomfortable hospital cot. They didn't let him sleep for more then twenty minutes at a time during the night, and he was desperately hoping the twenty four hour watch period was coming to a close.

Kurt had asked to see a mirror and everyone, even the doctor, had refused him. "It'd be better if we waited until the swelling went down."

"How long will that be?" Kurt demanded, "How long do you expect me to stay here?"

"Kurt," the doctor said with a falsely gentle tone, "we need to ask you some questions."

Oh, good lord.

* * *

Hey Azimo.

Well, if it ain't the glee fags. Look, boys, I'm flattered and all, but I don't roll that way-

_Fuck, my nose!_

* * *

**A/N Um….word?**

**Look, I have no idea where I'm going with this. It was originally gonna be a oneshot but then I didn't feel like finishing it but I knew if I didn't post it then I would forget it existed, and now...I'd appreciate some suggestions. Please?**


	5. No giving up when youre young

"_It's really gay."_

-Kurt

* * *

In a very melodramatic way, Kurt was asked, how did he obtain these injuries? Are there any problems at home? Anything he'd like to talk about? Mr. Hummel, could you please leave the room?

It was all very dramatic.

* * *

Once again, Puck and Finn found themselves sipping slushy's against Puck's car.

Puck held his to his swollen knuckles, and Finn to his reddening chin.

"What a jackass," Puck commented, flexing his fist. "You see his face? Like, _oh shit_, this is what it feels like. Jackass."

Finn nodded, "Yeah."

"I mean," Puck continued, "after the way he handed Hummel a new one, what'd he expect? You don't fuck with the Puckmeister." He took a long gulp of slushie. "Only _I'm _aloud to fuck with the fags."

"Dude," Finn hissed. "Shut the fuck up."

Puck raised his hands, _"What?"_

"Just 'cause you mess a guy up doesn't give you the right to throw that word around."

Here's the thing about Finn; he was, really, a quiet kid. Not too dumb, but not an Einstein either. You'd never really hear him speak up about anything unless it was too loud to mutter. So the way he raised his voice, it freaked Puck out.

"Didn't you get kicked outta Hummel's fucking house for _throwing it around_?" Puck retorted, throwing his empty big gulp to the concrete.

Finn tensed, threw his own empty cup half heartedly towards a garbage can (missed), turned around. "That has _nothing_ to do with this."

"Bullshit!" Puck barked. "Your really are a hypocrite sometimes, you know that?"

"How am _I_ a hypocrite? You're the one who just kicked Azimo's ass for doing what you always did-"

"I was never as bad as goddamn _Azimo_," Puck said, "I never kicked a kid's ass just cause he was a fag. I kicked his ass cause he looked at me wrong, and I didn't care if they were gay 'r straight or rainbow or whatever-I just fuck with people. It's what I do. At least I admit it."

Finn stepped away from the car and looked Puck in the eye. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Puck stood straight. "What I mean is you're always on your fucking high horse about shit like this just 'cause you held the kid's stupid sweater while we threw him in the dumpster, but did you fucking help him out of the dumpster? No, you just hung it on the fence for him to pick up himself. Your no better then me."

Puck started to walk towards the driver side of his car, opening the door just slightly until Finn's hand came down, slamming it shut. "At least I'm not running around calling everybody fags or queers or losers or-anything. I just-"

"You just what? You called his shit faggy. You called all this shit he put in _his_ room faggy and, you know what? Maybe it was fucking faggy. But it's the same fucking thing, Hudson," Puck said, never moving from the car. "You say it, I say it, neither of us mean it but everyone always makes it into _something_ and it only means _something_ if you make it _something_, right? But you and me both make it _something _all the fucking time, so don't start telling me it's not the same goddamn thing, Finn. We're both bastards, but thank your lucky stars we're not fucking bastards."

* * *

Hummel?

Finn? Everything okay?

Yeah, I was just wonderin' how Kurt was doing-

-how you know about Kurt?

Uh, me and Puck kinda found him and we drove him home-

_You_ drove him home?

Uh, yeah.

_What the hell were you thinking?_

….sorry?

He has a busted head and cracked ribs for chrissakes and you drove him _home_?

He asked us too-

I don't care what he asked you! Did you even look at him? Did you see his face? I thought you were smarter then that, Finn.

I…I didn't wanna, you know, rattle him up…more, you know?

Finn-hang up.

What?

Just hang up, Finn. Kurt'll be back in school by next week.

But-

Mr. Hummel?

Mr. Hummel?

* * *

**A/N Um, hate this chapter. This was my sad attempt at being all deep and shit. Next one will be all Kurt.**


	6. and you want some

"_And I don't want the world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand"_

_-Goo Goo Dolls_

* * *

The thing is, Kurt was more embarrassed then anything.

Not that anyone had ever thought him to be some kind of secret superman or whatever; everyone and their dog knew a little girl could get bring him down. But it was one thing to theorize, and another to _prove_. And that kid, Azimo whatshisface, had proved it so brutally Kurt had to shave his hair (his _hair_. Oh, god, _his hair_!) so the doctor could make sure there were no severe lacerations on his head. This was how Puck felt, he was sure, this cool breeze only guarded by a gentle fuzz. Kurt Hummel could handle any fist you through at him, but when you take a girl's hair-that's when things get suicidal.

"Please be merciful," he moaned, on the phone with Mercedes, "bring a gun and end my misery. I can't live like this."

"Oh, sweetie," Mercedes replied, "it'll grow back."

"You can't understand this pain, Mercedes," he said. "Your black. Your hair grows faster then Kirstie Alley off Jenny Craig."

Mercedes laughed gently and there was the soft sound of piano keys in the background. It had been three days since they had let Kurt out of the hospital (a torturous two day stay), and two since his father put the talks of lawsuits and idiot kids to rest. The Hummel house was now so painfully silent that Kurt had literally _no other option _then to call Mercedes.

"So did you hear about Finn and Puck?" she asked.

Kurt sat straighter in his bed, dropping the Barbara songbook he'd been flipping through onto his side table. "What about them?"

"They beat the crap out of that kid Azimo. They won't give why, but they're suspended till next week," she scoffed. "Boys just wantin' to be hit, if you ask me."

"That's…" Kurt said quietly, sitting back down and looking up at his ceiling. The room was still adorned in maroon and red and bronze, décor too perfectly put together to tear apart despite what it had meant to whatever kind of happiness his father had acquired. Yes, Burt had still been seeing Finn's mother, but it was really impossible to be anything but wary of a man who had thrown your son out of his house.

This news was both surprising and…not. He knew that, despite his best efforts, Finn was just the hot head any other player on the football team was, and Puck was like an active volcano. But had they really-_really_-risked suspension for _him? _Did Puck even know his first name?

"Kurt," Burt called, "you want food?"

Kurt pulled the phone away from his mouth. "_No, _dad," he replied for the fifteenth time that hour. His father had always believed burnt barbeque was the band aide for a broken heart (or something).

"….so Azimo ran down to Coach Sylvester's office for some reason and she went to Figgins and, have you noticed that that man'd shoot down the moon for the lady? I'd swear they got something' goin' on if Coach wasn't, like, asexual…" He realized quickly that Mercedes had never stopped talking, and tried to ease back into the conversation.

"She worships Madonna, Mercedes. The woman could hardly be asexual-"

"You sure?" Burt hollered. "Got hot dogs 'r I could get some of that fish crap you like-"

"_Dad_," Kurt called, "I ate half an hour ago."

"Right, right…."

"So how _are_ things with your dad?" Mercedes asked off-handedly.

Kurt sighed. "It's been like this for days. Like burnt cow meat will make me any less of a _raging_ homosexual."

Mercedes laughed, loud and boisterous, "Girl, you gonna need a _lot_ more then cow meat."

The sound of her laughter was infectious, so much so that Kurt couldn't tell whether he was laughing or his ribs were lighting themselves on fire in a ill-conceived suicide attempt. Either way, the pain made him double over, folding his legs up and leaning his chin on his kneecaps. "Ha-Mercedes, shut up-ha, _oh."_

There was the sound of air ripping through clenched teeth, and her laughter burst through her lips like water from a dam. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't…._hahaha!"_

"It's not even that-haha-funny," Kurt gasped, snickering into his leg and clutching his ribcage. "What are we laughing at?"

"_I don't know!" _she roared.

"Kurt?" Burt called. "You okay?"

Kurt tried to answer, but all that came out was painful_, painful _laughter.

* * *

Kurt was humming to himself when Burt came down and stood stiffly at the foot of the stairs. "The doctor said you can start school on Monday."

Kurt nodded absently, fingering the soft fray of his pillow.

"And, uh," Burt continued, "you can probably take off the bandages, too."

Sighing, Kurt turned his head slightly so he was looking at his _Wicked_ poster.

"Said you shouldn't be singing cause, you know, the ribs…"

This was the only thing that urged a reaction out of Kurt; a small flinch, a flash of the eye and little else, quickly replaced with well-rehearsed stoic composure.

"How long?" he asked.

"A week, two tops."

Kurt nodded again.

There was a long, stifling silence and to Kurt it was almost as suffocating as cracked ribs.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"Right. Well, uh, get some rest and that girl-"

"Mercedes."

"Right, Mercedes'll be dropping off your homework later."

"I know."

"Uh, right."

Pause.

"You wanna, you know, talk?"

"No."

"Because I'm here if you, uh, do."

"I'm good."

"Right."

"You said that."

* * *

By the time Kurt had returned to school, everyone knew about him and they knew about Azimo and only the more practical few connected them, but none voiced these assumptions in anything but passing interest which quickly faded. Because gay kids got their asses handed to them all the time and so did football players.

But Azimo did not forget. Call it instinct, but when he found "fudge packer" spray painted in child's scrawl on his locker, Kurt knew this to be fact.

"Hey, Hummel," Puck said, leaning against the locker beside Kurt's as he replaced one binder for another. "How ya doin'?"

"I'm bald," he said flatly. He still couldn't say it without his stomach lurching.

"Nah, just buzzed," Puck said lazily, crushing his soda can in his still swollen hand. "Took care of Azimo fer ya."

"I heard."

"Gee, thanks, Noah," Puck said in a surprisingly high voice. "I don't know _what_ I would've done without you-"

"Did I _ever_," Kurt stressed, "ask you for anything?"

Puck crossed his arms and leaned his back fully on the lockers behind him, looking over at Kurt. He tried not to notice. "I just figured you wouldn't mind me and your boyfriend teaching the kid-"

Kurt slammed his locker shut so violently the noise wrought a momentary hush throughout the immediate area. "_Finn is not my boyfriend."_

This seemed to be the only thing all day that could bring both boys out of their stupor-Puck, from his typical carelessness and Kurt from his partly drug induced daze. The second time in a week someone had caught Puck off guard.

"Shit, fine," Puck scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning on his heels. "Just checkin' in."

"Touching," Kurt muttered, flinging his backpack over his shoulder and shuffling towards the Spanish room.

* * *

"Kurt!" Mr. Schue greeted Kurt with all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, clapping him on the back and flashing him one of those grins that secretly made all of his students swoon. "Long time no see."

Kurt smiled half-heartedly, keeping his head ducked just slightly to better conceal his purple face under the rather suffocating hat Mercedes had picked out for him.

Schue's smile faltered slightly. "Mercedes told me what happened."

Kurt nodded, focusing all his attention on his seat in the back. Kids were beginning to pile into the class as the warning bell rang through the school.

Mr. Schue looked at his Spanish class and said, "Why don't you take a seat and I'll see you in Glee?"

More then happy to oblige, Kurt ducked his (bald bald _bald_) head and sat down.

* * *

"Fag!"

That one word sent Kurt running, no, _sprinting_ down the hallway and slamming himself into the boy's bathroom, the one next to the home ec rooms that no one used because they smelled like piss and hairspray.

He threw the door closed and flipped the broken lock. He flipped it and he jammed it and he pounded it with his fist until his knuckles hurt because, bravado aside, he had never, _ever_ been so afraid of a faceless voice in his entire life.

* * *

Hello?

You'll be fucking sorry, Hudson.

Azimo?

Hello?

_Hello?_

* * *

**A/N Hey! I don't hate this chapter! Hopefully you don't either! Tell me if you do! I promise I won't kill myself!**


	7. Running around again

"_Can you go now? I think I need to close the door and cry." _

-Emma

* * *

"Holy shit."

This was the first thing anyone said when Kurt walked into the choir room that day.

It was Santana, sitting at the chair closest to the door, first to see Kurt's purple face and buzzed head from under his fedora-thing. His clothes, while obviously ten times better then anything anyone else had worn that day, lacked their usual…composure. Wrinkled here, untucked there, hardly noticeable to anyone who didn't knew the boy who wore them. But even Santana, who barely talked to the kid, felt how off the entire assemble was.

Kurt had kept his eyes down when he came in, froze and stiffened at Santana's sudden exclamation, but forced his feet forward and tried not to make a spectacle of himself. Shoulders squared, he pushed through the tangible silence.

Mercedes had saved him a seat.

And Finn just happened to be behind him.

He felt the other boy's breath on his neck as he leaned in and whispered, "You okay?"

"Fantastic," he replied lazily, though it was indeed a task with his burning ribs keeping him stiff as a board. The bandages and the clothes he wore (skinny jeans? _Really?) _made him claustrophobic and he didn't appreciate the close proximity of Finn's mouth (even if it was, you know, Finn).

"Okay," Mr. Shu began boisterously, striding into the room with his usual enthusiasm, "now that we have all our soloists back-"

"Soloist_s_?" Kurt asked. While he was occasionally subject to a couple stand-alone tidbits from whichever grand finale they were performing that week, after the Diva-Off incident he'd assumed he'd never be so much as considered for an official solo until after Sectionals (assuming they got that far).

Will smiled in that at-times sickening way that screamed overcompensation and passed around sheet music; one to Kurt, one to Mercedes and one to Finn.

Mercedes' grin was the widest Kurt had seen it since she found a _real_ Marc Jacobs blouse on sale at the mall. "_When Your Good to Mama_? I feel like I should be offended, Mr. Shu."

Finn made a face. "_West Side Story_?"

"Oh, quiet," Tina scoffed, looking at the sheet music from over Finn's shoulder, "'Something Good' is the most masculine song in the entire play."

"What'd you get, Kurt?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt looked down at his paper, smiled even though his face was stale as old bread. "Mika."

"Who's Mika?" Puck asked.

Outrage, personal insult, struck Kurt like lightning. "Who's Mika? Only one of the biggest pop acts in UK history-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Shu," Rachel started, only to be cut off by a momentous groan throughout the room.

"Can you, like, not," Brittany said. "My head hurts."

She looked indignant. "I was just going to ask-"

"Why you don't have a solo," Artie and Tina mocked in unison.

"Seriously, you and Finn have, like, ninety percent of the group performances," Santana snapped. "I think it's someone else's turn."

Kurt could have told you exactly what Rachel said next, except he had heard it before and he was far too content singing "We Are Golden" under his breath.

* * *

"_Hey_ there, Hummel."

One large hand smacked against his back so hard he lost his breath, pushed him around and against the wall of the empty hallway. He looked down and saw the familiar site of white football pants, grass stains scattered around the knee.

He looked up and saw Azimio, a yellow bruise fading around his nose. His eyes had a psychotic glint, the same he had that night in the school parking lot and the same every other day of the week Kurt was forced to breath the same air as the Neanderthal.

Azimio was flanked by two other boys Kurt was sure he'd seen before (though it was hard to tell, seeing as all those jock types looked alike). They must have just gotten out of practice.

"So you run to your little fuck buddies when someone gives you a hard time?" he growled. "Fucking pussy."

"Your vocabulary is astonishing, it is," Kurt said, trying in vain to pluck Azimio's fist from his jacket, "but I really must be going…"

And so fast he didn't even know what it was, Kurt's face jerked to the side, _bam_, like a thunder bolt. His cheek smacked against the locker beside him and a thousand supernovas blinded him.

So blatantly, not even veiled by the blanket of night or the hides of his fellow teammates, Azimio had bashed his fist against Kurt's face like he was Rocky and this was a meat cellar. Kurt gasped for breath, his eyes widening in shock, surprise, rising pain inflaming in his cheek.

"Consider that an appetizer, fag," Azimio drawled, giving Kurt one final shove against the wall and striding off, his two flunkies following suit. "By the way," he called. "_Love_ the hair."

* * *

Burt remembered Kurt's first (and last) football game fondly. He always skipped over the dancing, of course, right on to that _ridiculous_ kick, that could have gone on forever, that gave Burt the moment he'd always wanted, standing in the bleachers at his son's game and watching that kid that he brought into the world become the star of the field. He could remember every detail of that kick, he really could. But he also remembered how little his son looked next to all those football players, how lithe and skinny and tiny he was. And that's what he thought now, when his son walked through the front door, hunched over from what could only be aching ribs, face pale but for fading bruises and-was that a new one? Why did he smell like old pizza? At least he was humming. But…

God, he was so small.

* * *

Hey, mom? It's Kurt.

I know your probably not listening, what with you spending all your time up there with Judy Garland and Bette Davis. I wouldn't want to be listening to my son either. But you don't have to really listen, I guess. I'll just talk and you nod once in a while.

So, you were probably never thrown into a dumpster or locker or sidewalk or anything, because I've seen your old yearbooks and you looked so beautiful and….normal, you know? So you probably don't know what I'm talking about, but I'll tell you its not fun. And it's getting worse. There's this clinically insane football player who sent me to the hospital last week and-yeah, dad was mad as hell. But these other kids-Finn, who I'm kind of in love with, and Puck who used to be my Head Tormentor I guess, they did that thing boys do where they have to beat the crap out of each other for things that have nothing to do with them…but yeah, it kind of made things worse.

Okay, the point of this is that I was wondering if this is always going to be how it is.

You know, am I going to have to wear a cup walking down the street my whole life? Do I need to dress like dad? Do I need to stop my moisturizing regimen? Because now that I'm basically bald, that's all that keeps me from losing it.

I just really want to cry, Mom. Like, all the time.

Like right now. I'm listening to _Hairspray_ and I'm crying so hard my throat hurts, because I can't sing and I don't have hair and my face hurts and my ribs hurt and its all because I wasn't macho enough.

Please tell me it gets easier, mom. Ask Liberace or something.

Thanks. Tell Judy I said she's amazing.

* * *

**A/N Mmmmmkay, so first off I'd like to apologize for referring to Azimio as Azimo this entire time, but that's what it sounded like to my wittle ears and, damn it, they've never failed me before. Thanks to all the folks who corrected me.**

**Second…I don't know. I'm writing this author's note before the actual chapter. Um, I guess I'll hate it, but maybe I'll like it. Either way, review and be HONEST. Like, if something sucks, or you don't like it, PLEASE TELL ME so I don't end up being one of those guys who writes like a three year old but doesn't know it cause everyone keeps telling them they kick ass. Don't let me be that guy.**

**Third. Um, I really hope I'm getting the pacing and characters right. The entire things seems really rushed to me, and maybe when I've finished the whole thing I'll fix it but for now I want to get out as many chapters as I can before I lose interest (because you know I will-just ask anyone who was reading my **_**Twilight**_** story.) But for now **_**Glee **_**is like my favorite show eva and I'd like to make a hurt!kurt fic that doesn't involve gratuitous hurt/comfort (not that there's anything wrong with that). Again, any critiques are welcome. And, um, apparently my grammar sucks? Feel free to point out specifics. Or beta. Anyone wanna beta?**

**Okay, fourth….thanks for reading? **


	8. running from running

_I was a boy, at an open door. Why are you staring? Do you think that you know?-_Mika, "We Are Golden"

_I'll probably always have these ugly scars.-_Preggers, "Bust Your Windows"

* * *

"We Are Golden" is a sickeningly cheerful song by UK wonder-artist Mika. The lyrics themselves are like a slow whirlpool down teenage insanity, but the music, the way the words are presented…the personification of happiness.

So Kurt was conflicted.

His small keyboard filled his room with the same three keys, the beginning of the song he'd have to sing in front of the glee club, by himself, probably with tap shoes and a top hat. Happy.

"Running around again," he sung softly, "running from running."

A small knock on the wall alerted Kurt that, once again, his father was standing awkwardly at the foot of the steps.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," Kurt said…curtly. Not that he was angry with his father, or even really annoyed. It was just that this whole too-manly-to-hug bit was getting old so very fast. Just because you had more chest hair then a normal person didn't really stunt your ability to speak more then four syllables at a time, did it?

"So, uh," Burt said. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"You run into those punks?"

Kurt dropped his hands onto his keyboard, creating a loud clash of notes. "What?"

Burt nodded. "You heard me. They bothering you?"

"Dad…"

"_Are they bothering you?"_

Kurt rolled his eyes. "What's your definition of _bothering_?"

"Kurt," Burt snapped.

Silence.

"You got hit again."

"_Yes_, I got hit again. Is that what you came in here to ask?"

"God_damn_it, Kurt," Burt spat, his stiff composure melting as he paced slow circles around the basement. "I swear to god, I'm calling the school. I'm calling the police. You can't let people do this to you."

"You think I'm _letting _them?"

"I think you don't realize that this is a crime-"

"You think I don't know what a freaking crime is?"

"Obviously you don't, the way your-"

"The way I'm what?" Kurt shouted. "The way I'm taking it like every other kid in the school? Do you think it'd get any better if I ran to the principal? What do you want me to _do_, dad?"

"I just," he grunted, "want you to….stop."

A long, thick, solidified silence followed.

"Stop," Kurt said, "what?"

Kurt knew the answer, even though Burt probably didn't (or probably did, in that way you know you gained a couple pounds, in that way you won't admit it, even to yourself, that way you know your human and it doesn't need to be acknowledged because it's so fucking obvious). He knew the answer, and he finished it in his head. Stop…putting on makeup and humming show tunes and wearing tiaras and dancing like a girl and using big words and singing high Fs and talking like a helium balloon and, damnit, stop being so gay, Kurt.

"Okay," Burt breathed out. "Okay. Fine." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ceiling. "If you don't care, fine, I don't either." He pulled one hand out quickly and flung a set of keys onto Kurt's desk. "There's your car back. You don't have to stop wearing those sweaters or nothing, either."

Burt left.

* * *

Curling around his bed, around those pillows he ordered for Finn because he had thought, hoped, _prayed_ that they would be masculine enough to appease him, to appease his dad and himself and just thinking about everyone he couldn't make happy, all the people that were so disappointed with him because he couldn't get his voice low enough and he couldn't get his arms thick enough and he couldn't get anything _anything_ enough and he cried, quietly into his shirt, with his homework laid out in front of him and his pain killers still floating in their glass of water and his ribs ached with every sob.

* * *

"How's your solo coming along?"

Kurt looked up at Rachel, who leered above him with her domineering smile that managed to convey both genuine interest and, what was that? Pity? Sadness?

"Fine."

"You know," she said, "my dads took me to a Mika concert on our trip to France last year. He really is quite the performer."

"I suppose."

Her smile faltered. They were in the library, Kurt because he had to catch up on a week's worth of homework and didn't feel like dealing with his father's…whatever, Rachel because she had to check back in her Angela Landesberry biography. She held a blue piece of paper tightly between her fingers.

"So," she continued, sitting down beside the boy, "how are your ribs? I heard they were cracked-"

"What do you want, Rachel?" Kurt sighed, leaning his elbows on the table and, in a very uncharacteristic move, rubbing his eyes.

She smiled thinly and smoothed out the paper on the table. "I…didn't want to be the one to tell you, but I feel something so…immediately problematic demands, well, immediate attention." She let out a nervous giggle.

Kurt squinted at her and grabbed the paper.

* * *

Attention McKinley High students.

To those involved with the recent unapproved flyers hung around campus, please know that we do not accept that kind of intolerance and bigotry in our out of school, and those found guilty of any offences related to these flyers are to be reported immediately.

McKinley has always prided itself in it's stance against bullying and tolerance…

* * *

**A/N Not an awful lot happened here. I feel like…I don't know. Like no one's really there. Even if it is third person, I feel like there should be more of a connection of some sort. **

**Oh, whatever. You tell me.**

**P.S. Got a hankering for human guitars and our favorite soprano losing his hit? Visit the lovely, stupendous, uhmazing Swing Girl At Heart for her Expect the Unexpected series and prepare to throw up on your computer. **


	9. waking up in the midday sun

"_I know who I am and I'm not allowed to show it. It's like Communism."_

-Tina

* * *

The next day at school, here's what happened:

Kurt was walking down the hallway towards his English class, hurriedly flipping through the parts he didn't read in _Animal Farm, _when suddenly he felt two sets of hands grab him by both elbows, two burly bodies at either side of him.

"Sup, Kurt," Finn Hudsen said in what could only be a parody of casual. Kurt realized they were dragging him away from his intended direction and towards a school exit.

"Um, where are we going?" he asked, struggling to keep his pace up to par with the long strides of the two boys.

"Oh, we're just goin' for some eats. Care to join us? Fantastic," Noah Puckerman said hurriedly. Kurt noticed that both boys' eyes were wild, and Puck seemed to have a new bruise under his chin.

Here's the funny thing about boys; they had been bred, from birth, to handle things on their own. Most of the time they didn't realize it, because they were too busy, well, _handling_ things. Kurt was probably the only boy in school self-referential enough to acknowledge it.

Got your girlfriend pregnant? Handle it. Guy getting in your face? Handle it. No one ever taught boys how to ask for help. Even Kurt, who most would question his possession of a Y chromo zone to begin with, never really learned it. So boys, when they were in trouble, they usually just ended up in more trouble.

But then some, a rare few, found a way to _handle it _without getting the shit beat out of them. It was called running. And sometimes there was nothing wrong with it.

* * *

It wasn't until they were in Puck's car that Kurt spoke. "I'm missing gym."

"Your welcome," Puck said. Because, really, gym was a nightmare for anyone like Kurt. You didn't even have to be in the same gym class (like Finn was) to know that. Just by looking at the kid, they could tell.

Kurt squinted at Puck, squinted at Finn, who hadn't gotten inside the car but instead stretched out over the opening of the passenger side, because Kurt had been too busy being shoved inside to close the door. "Do I sound like I'm thanking you for anything?"

Puck leans back against the driver's seat, "Do you have any idea what's going on in there?"

Kurt's jaw clenched and he crossed his arms. "If your referring to this 'Kick a Fag' day nonsense, then _yes, _I'm perfectly aware of what's going on in there."

Finn looked quickly over his shoulder, then back inside the car, at (dainty, fragile) Kurt and (big, mean) Puck. Last year he would have never thought the two would be in the same space, talking sorta-civilly to each other. Fuck, last month it was still a distant possibility. But Finn always had a theory that Puck was a kid that needed something to look out for and even though he'd have sooner cut off his own dick then admit it, he'd always had a soft spot for Kurt.

And Kurt…god. Sometimes Finn wondered how he did it.

If it were him, Finn would have toned it down a long time ago. In his opinion, being different was something for after high school, you know? It's only a little while, and then you can be as flaming as you fucking want, except you don't have to worry about shit like this, shit like a bunch of idiots threatening to beat the crap out of you just because you couldn't tone it down for four goddamn years. Finn wanted to scream at him, is all this worth it? Is your stupid complexion and Marc Jacobs whatever really worth it?

"Those kids," Puck said slowly, as if to a child, "will _kill_ you."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Noah."

Puck grinded his teeth (because anyone in the greater central Utah area knew if there was only one thing Puck hated, it was his name). "I really, really don't think your getting this."

"You think I don't _know_? Why does everyone think I don't _know_?" Kurt's composure melted like butter, exchanged for irritated fury. "Just because I'm not screaming it from the rooftops doesn't mean I don't know how the world works. I just _choose_ not to hide in a corner."

Puck flung his hands in the air before dropping them heavily on the steering wheel. "How do they say _I'm_ thick headed?"

"Kurt," Finn added, "I talk to these guys. They're not fucking around, okay?"

"I never said they were. Is this an official kidnapping or can I leave?"

Puck plucked at his Mohawk. "Do you just wanna get hit? Is this like a fetish for you or something?"

"Puck, _shut the hell up_," Finn hissed.

"_What_?" Puck said. "We're trying to help the little fag and all he's doing is being a fucking bitch. Could you at least," this he directed at Kurt, "stop acting like such a girl for five minutes so me and Finn don't have to spend all our time getting our asses kicked keeping you outta the dumpster?"

"You don't _have_ to. You _chose_ to. You're the ones throwing yourselves into fights that have nothing to do to you because you can't handle _not_ being the center of attention-"

"And what would you do without us, LaBelle? Oh, yeah, you would have had a nice long career as _fertilizer_."

Kurt kicked the dashboard with such force the car shook. _"I can take care of my damn self, Puckerman!"_

"No you fucking _can't_," Puck roared, pounding his fist against the steering wheel (again), "because you are a _fucking_ pansy-ass _faggot_."

And Finn saw it.

So subtle, so well-concealed that anyone who wasn't looking-really looking-would miss it. The small slump of the shoulders, flash of the eyes, twitch of the lip. Like a flinch, but…less. Less then when Finn tore down all his crap, less then when he was pushed around and slushied. Less and well-concealed. But it was there.

If Finn could see someone's heart breaking, he saw it in Kurt Hummel's eyes.

* * *

Kurt had never been offended by Noah Puckerman.

He'd been hit, slapped, shoved, tripped, pushed, thrown and jarred by Puck, but he had never taken any of it to heart. It was nothing personal, because the linebacker didn't know him, didn't know anything about him. He could say all he wanted, but in the end it was just passing jeers based on whatever Kurt had worn that day.

But now they were in glee club together and Puck knew a lot about him, enough to know that he did not like any accusations of weakness-_real_ weakness, the kind where you can't so much as drop a penny without bursting into tears. Puck knew this.

And this is why he was offended by the idiot Puck. Because now they knew each other and Puck, what he said, advanced farther then a single slur and a slushie to the face. He'd took his knife and dug.

"I'm sorry," Kurt said quietly, "my _condition_ is such an inconvenience for you."

"Puck," Finn said softly, like a deflated balloon once full of hot air. No one could be angry anymore. The atmosphere and sucked it all out of them.

Kurt calmly moved past Finn and walked back to school.

* * *

Hey, Kurt? It's Mercedes. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I didn't see you after third period, and you weren't in glee today. I saw you leave with Puck and Finn, and ya'll looked kind of…I don't know. Not scared, but…

Just call me, okay?

* * *

**A/N So I think this story is **_**definitely**_** improving. Perhaps by the time the last chapter rolls around I won't be face palming at my failings as a writer!**

**This thing is kind of based off this thing that happened in my friends school where these idiots made a face book event called "kick a fag day". **

**And there are two things you should direct your attention towards. One, a companion/alternate ending for this story called "So Much," when I was gonna have Kurt beaten to death (no worries, the boy lives…for now). It's Burt calling Kurt's phone on the day of his funeral. Also take a peak at m'girl Swing Girl At Heart's series "Expect the Unexpected," basically just a bunch of stories detailing characters doing things they would never do. I'd suggest "Take Me Away" if you never want to listen to "Sweet Caroline", like, ever again. **


	10. whats to live for?

"_Imagine all the people living life in peace." _

_-Imagine, Hairography_

* * *

Will Shuester gave Kurt that song for a reason.

Yes, it was well within his vocal range (hell, anything was) and yes, pushing aside all his educator sensitivity courses, it was very, _very_ gay. But it was also one of the saddest songs he had ever heard, beneath the high notes and whimsical beats. It was pure melancholy.

And that's kind of what Kurt was. Melancholy wrapped in high notes.

He was grading papers and when he reached Kurt's, he took special notice. The usually straight and precise handwriting was replaced with chicken scratch, in three different pen colors and the most atrocious Spanish he'd ever read. The paper was wrinkled and had coffee stains at the corners.

Will had a thought-what would Mika be if he had suddenly missed a note, if the music died down but the words didn't and all anyone heard was the melancholy, if only for a minute?

It would be like Kurt's Spanish paper.

* * *

Kurt went around the building until he reached the back parking lot because despite all the self-righteousness he had put into his argument, he really didn't feel like being in school.

So he hung back, crossed his arms, and thought.

Kick a Fag Day. How original.

Kurt couldn't be sure if the entire affair was created specifically out of Azimio's resentment or just an inevitable advance in the Ohio bullying phenomenon. He hadn't seen any actual kicking involved that day, just a lot of jeers and shoves, none directed towards Kurt. Which he found odd, considering he was no doubt the most effeminate boy in McKinley.

He glanced at his watch. Gym was over and he should be going towards English, where he still hadn't read the assigned novel and sat beside a rather boxed-shape oaf with buck teeth and a dirty letterman. Once upon a time he would have thought Cheerios membership would grant him a free pass in the eyes of McKinley's sports department. Evidently _fag_ overwhelmed any scraps of popularity he could muster (even though Santana and Brittany had spared that rumor that he was related to David Beckham…being married to a Spice Girl with a flat chest eliminated any and all street credibility…at least in Ohio…)

Where was the harm in skipping another period?

Kurt leaned back heavily against the wall and slid down, for once in his entire existence not caring that he was probably getting all kind of grime on his (_white!) _pants. And though he was a good four feet away from the dumpster, his fingers still itched with anxiety at the sheer _volume_ of trash it contained.

Four feet away. He heard a groan.

Kurt jumped and sprang back to his feet so quickly Sue Sylvester would have allowed him ten extra calories for lunch. His eyes darted back and forth, horrible, terrible images flashing through his mind. Irrationally, albeit, but the strangest things tended to lurk in the back parking lots of Ohio schools. Make of this what you will.

Holding his breath, Kurt inched slowly away from the wall and craned his neck to look over the dumpster, the apparent source of the groaning.

And he saw feet.

Of course, his _untamable_ imagination immediately took them for decapitated. But then he saw thighs, and a stomach and as he stepped out further, he saw…

No, that wasn't a face.

That couldn't be a face.

"Oh, my god," Kurt muttered, his feet frozen.

The kid-was it a kid?-groaned again, his skinny leg twitching. Kurt had never been under pressure before (unless a late night cram session the nineteen hours before finals counted), so he therefore had no idea what type of person he _was_ under pressure. Maybe this was a learning experience.

Okay, okay.

Oh, my god.

He finally flung his foot forward, dropping his bag and running to the…thing (it couldn't be a _person_, not a _human_). He fell to his knees, right beside the boy's chest, looking intently at this circular mound of gore. He could see a nose, two little holes that were making this horrible whistling noise. A dark slit, pink-white broken lumps hanging in between. Wheezes burst from it like wind, and the kid's chest rose and fell like his entire body was wrapped in a blood-pressure band. Two swollen masses were where a set of human eyes usually were.

"Okay," Kurt whispered. "Okay, okay. I'll…I'm going to help you. I'll get help." It sounded like such a lie, coming from Kurt. His voice was cracking so much he didn't even know if he was audible. Like a child at gunpoint.

He looked around feverishly, searching for any signs of life among the school lunches of yesteryear. All he could see was the passing cars on the road across the football field, hardly within his (expertly trained) voice's range. Looked back down, all he could see was red and just a little pale white as his eyes blurred with furious, frustrated tears.

God, he thought. I'm such a _fag._

* * *

"Mr. Hummel."

Kurt looked up from his intertwined hands, unlacing his fingers and wiping them against his (ruined) khakis. A doctor stood before him, flanked by a man and a woman. They all looked…not grave. Or serious. The best he could describe it was a repair man at the doorstep of someone with the same question about their toilet that the last person had with _their_ toiler; routine, and maybe a little annoyed.

"Yes?" Kurt asked, his voice hoarse from lack of use and, okay, he'll admit it, just a bit of uncontrollable sobbing.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Kurt nodded, clearing his throat and crossing his legs in a last bit effort to save some face.

The woman stepped forward with a clipboard and a tightly wound bun, the dark side of sensible heals squeezing her blue-veined feet. She could have been pretty had she quit school when she was sixteen and go off to follow her favorite band. No she was just…miserable.

"What's your relation to Mr. Patrick," she asked briskly.

He blinked. "I didn't even know his name."

"And tell me again how and where you found him?"

"I was in the back parking lot and saw him behind a dumpster."

"Why weren't you in class?"

Kurt cleared his throat again, opening his mouth for a response he didn't have and closing it. The women sniffed haughtily and dropped it.

"Do you have any clue as to the motive of Jared's assault?"

Kurt squirmed looking down at his clenched fists, tightly wound together. "There was…" he started, "_is_, this….thing going on."

The man stepped beside the woman, leaning in so close Kurt could count his warts (not really-there were a lot). "What _thing_?"

"Kick a…" Kurt struggled with the word, sounding so alien on his tongue, "Fag day. The football players started it."

There was a momentary silence, where the woman scribbled on her clipboard and the man glared at Kurt with a well-rehearsed Law and Order square-of-the-shoulders. He asked, "Fag as in, homosexual, am I correct?"

Kurt nodded.

"_Was _Jared a homosexual?"

Kurt blinked. "I…I don't know," he said dumbly. "Why does that matter?"

The man frowned. "It plays a part in this investigation."

The doctor returned from wherever he had fell into, pulled aside the man. The woman stayed with her clipboard.

Kurt's eyes darted back and forth, from the woman to the men. The woman nodded to herself and said without looking at him, "Thank you for your cooperation."

"Wait," he called to her, "a kid just got _beat up_. Why does it _matter_?"

He was on his feet, half a foot away from the chair he started at. He looked to his side to find the man gone and the doctor watching him steadily, something like pity and something like sadness in his eye, before turning away.

* * *

Kurt walked into the kid-Jared Patrick's-room after numbly walking the hospital wing for half an hour. He had the kid's blood all over his polo. He owed him a visit.

He was surprised when he didn't see any family members next to Jared's. It had been an hour since they had settled him into the room. Kurt's own phone had been buzzing the entire time, and he knew someone had called his father when they took his name and Burt was no doubt speeding down the highway towards the hospital.

It was a sad sight, though. A little, skinny kid swallowed by white sheets, hooked up to machines, bandages obscuring most of his face. All alone.

That was one thing Kurt was irrevocably grateful for; he'd never be alone in a hospital bed. He'd have Mercedes bitching about how the only solos she gets are in the Funk numbers, or Tina making him listen to whatever metal band she was obsessed with that week, or Artie quizzing himself in calculus, or his dad quietly discussing the shop, more to himself then to Kurt. Even Finn, with an awkward silence following him like a shadow, would be with him. The thought of _no one _was incomprehensible to Kurt.

The doctors had mentioned briefly that they would have to perform reconstructive surgery on Jared as soon as his parents showed up with proof of insurance (because evidently a collapsed nose was not considered immediately necessary).

Kurt sat down.

"Thank you," came a soft, wispy voice. Kurt looked down.

"Anytime," he replied softly, smiling even though the other boy couldn't see him.

There was a long stretch of silence before the rasping rose again. "I'm not even gay."

Kurt nodded, even though the other boy couldn't see him.

"You're the only gay kid in Lima."

His stomach lurched, twisted. Well, that's an isolating thought.

"They just want…an…excuse," he paused to breath in heavily, "to…fuck with…everybody…if they meant it, you'd…be…dead."

Wincing, Kurt chuckled bitterly. "Oh, I'm sure there planning something _extra _special for me."

"I'm…sorry…" Jared wheezed. "Your…I…_ugh." _He made a hacking noise and his spine arched slightly. The heart monitor jumped before easing back into rhythm.

"I should get a nurse," Kurt said.

"_I'm not even gay_," the boy snapped as though Kurt had, well, _asked_ him.

"You said that," he replied quietly. Despair made his face fall.

Would that be him? Would Kurt one day be hooked up to monitor's, his face broken, furiously claiming his innocence for a crime that wasn't even a crime? Was this how it was going to be? Was _every fucking day _going to be a Kick a Fag one?

Kurt placed a docile hand on Jared's shoulder before sliding out of the heavy room.

* * *

Kurt?

Hm?

Jesus fucking Christ, why haven't you been answering your phone?

I was at the hospital.

_I know you were at the hospital. _I just got a call at work about you being _at the hospital. _

Sorry.

No, no…don't be sorry. God, Kurt. You just had me worried.

Sorry.

Fuck…okay, fine. Why were you at the hospital? Are you okay? Are you hurt?

No, it was another kid.

Another…does this have anything to do with the Kick a…you know, day the schools been calling everybody about?

Yes.

Do you…is the other kid okay?

He has to get reconstructive surgery on his entire face.

Oh, my god. Shit.

Yeah.

…Kurt? Are you okay? You sound off.

I'm fine.

Are you still at the hospital?

Parking lot.

Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you.

…

Kurt?

Yeah.

Just…stay safe. Until I get there.

Right.


	11. you can see what i've done

_I could really use a wish right now _

-"Airplanes", B.o.B

* * *

Tina stormed down the hallway, phone pressed tightly against her ear. "Do you know who it was?"

"Some prop kid from drama. Patrick or something. Matt said he saw Kurt get in the ambulance with him during gym."

"Was he hurt?" Tina's hair was pulled up out of her face as she simultaneously sent out text messages and scribbled down math equations. She had spent her study period trying to get Artie's chair out of a conveniently placed puddle of paste smeared across the ramp behind the lunchroom. Though she would never tell him, Tina pitied Artie more then anything most days. It was one thing to be called names, it was another to be robbed of the sparse control you had over your body and rolled around like a toy. The thought made her shutter.

"He had blood all over his hands," Matt said, taking the phone from Mercedes. "I was halfway across the track and all I saw was this red all over his shirt…"

"Which means he might as well be hurt," Mercedes added. "That shirt cost _one-twenty_, Tina!"

Tina rolled her eyes. "_Okay_, Mercedes," she sighed, hoping on one foot and leaning her sheet of math equations on her knee. "He's no answering my texts. How 'bout yours?"

"All I got was him askin' me to pick up the chemistry homework," Matt said.

"I was thinking we drive over there after school-_oh!" _Mercedes gasped and there was the momentary sound of slop hitting denim.

"Mercedes? _Mercedes?" _Tina had been on edge since she first saw the fliers, as "fag" usually translated to anyone in show choir. The sound of Mercedes' sudden yelp made her heart thrash against her ribcage. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she breathed. "Just a slushie."

* * *

Mercedes wished Kurt were here right now.

Matt had been a sweetie, offering her his sweatshirt to replace her ruined top. She had turned him away, shoved her phone in his hand and asked him to wash it in the boy's room while she ran into the girl's, taking the garbage can and slamming it with all the force in her body against the door. She stomped over to the sink and made a frantic, half-hearted effort at washing the red slushie from her light blue shirt before throwing the paper towel against the mirror and falling back against the cool porcelain of the tiled floor. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

"Mercedes?"

She looked up and saw Brittany.

"Hey, Brittany," she sighed, trying to imagine the sheer pathetic dripping from her skin at that moment, how horrible she must look to the skinny little Cheerio. Not that Brittany was particularly threatening, not at all like Santana; but she was still "other", capable of retaining her former popularity at will. And Mercedes seething on the bathroom floor was doing nothing for her cred.

"Here," she extended a moist toilette from her backpack towards Mercedes like a peace offering. She smiled weakly and accepted it, turning it over in her hands.

They sat in silence for what felt like an hour, Brittany twirling a lock of hair with her finger and looking between Mercedes and the mirror. "If you wash that with bleach and stuff the stain might come out," she said.

Mercedes appreciated the effort. "Thanks."

Brittany sat down beside her. "One time my ex boyfriend got some on my Cheerios uniform by accident and smelled really good for, like, a week."

Mercedes nodded absently, wondering how close to the bell she would cut it if she left now. Good thing she had Spanish next.

"This whole thing sucks, doesn't it?" Brittany said quietly.

Mercedes snorted. "Yeah, for _us_."

Brittany blinked. "I'm in Glee too, you know."

"Yeah, and you're also a hot cheerleader with less IQ points then calorie intake," Mercedes snapped. She knew in her gut that, yeah, she was being the world's biggest bitch right now. But the thought that _Brittany_ was putting herself in the same category as Artie or Tina or _Kurt_-no, that wasn't right. That wasn't ever right.

Mercedes was sure she'd never see Brittany mad, and she was right; the blonde wasn't mad. She just looked, almost guiltily, down at her laced fingers and spoke with a soft, gentle voice. "I'm not that smart, but I know when people are making fun of me."

"Oh yeah?" Mercedes barked, getting to her feet and slamming the paper towels into the garbage can, grabbing some more and dabbing furiously at her soiled shirt. "Who makes fun of you? Who would _ever_ make fun of a damn Cheerio?"

"The soccer team," she muttered. "Me and Santana."

Frozen, Mercedes couldn't say anything but, "What?"

Brittany nodded. "Just now. At first everyone thought it was hot that we did stuff, but now they were calling us carpet eaters or something" She paused, taking a strand of her hair and nibbling at it absently. "They cut up my sneakers."

Her feet were, indeed, bare except for chipped pink polish on the nails.

"I've been in here since third period," she added.

Mercedes gaped, first at Brittany's bare feet, then her raw, puffy eyes, then at the tips of her hair. Bent in every direction, crinkled and frayed and more then a little greasy. The entire sight, upon reflection, was truly the more pathetic of images. Mercedes was used to this, so much so that it barely registered anymore. But Brittany? Popular since puberty. A slushie to her face would no doubt be as large a shock as the severing of a limb or the death of a family member. In a way, it was a death; the death of her security, her relative freedom across McKinley's halls. All the years of pointless hookups and beauty treatments were now useless to her. Even the hottest cheerleaders were subjected to this bullshit.

"Brittany…"

"Me and Santana aren't even gay," she continued. "I mean, sex isn't being gay. Just because you sleep with girls sometimes doesn't mean your gay. It's not even girls. It's just her. She's my best friend. We just get bored." Her voice cracked and she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. "We're just sluts. We just like sex. It doesn't mean we're carpet eaters, right?" Her face broke all too suddenly, one moment dull and passive, the next fallen, pouting, agonized. "I don't even know what that means."

"Oh, honey…" Mercedes breathed, completely at a loss for anything to say. At that moment she could've attested to the notion that she had forgotten the English language all together.

So that's how Mercedes and Brittany spent the rest of Kick a Fag Day; crying and watching and waiting for something to get better.

* * *

"I can't believe you said that to him."

"Shut up."

They were sitting desolately outside Breadsticks, hoping to catch a spare wiff of honey-toasted deliciousness for lack of either money or something better to do. Neither Finn nor Puck could bring themselves back into the building. The ridicule of their teammates, combined with the fear of confronting anyone remotely associated with Kurt had slowly diminished their will to go on.

"That was so out of line, Puck."

Puck chucked a bottle cap at a nearby pickup. "God, will you _shut up_, Finn?"

Finn Hudson leaned his head back against the hard concrete outside of the restaurant, shaking his head slightly and closing his eyes. "Your such an ass."

"Why'm I an ass? 'Cause I said what everyone else in the goddamn world was thinking?"

"No, you're an ass because you enjoy _inflicting pain _onto other people," Finn spat.

"Well _sorry_ not all of us meet your moral expectations, St. Hudson," Puck said, running a hand through his Mohawk out of habit. "But what did you want me to say? Kid's being a little diva and-fuck, it's _high school_, for chrissakes. There are _rules_. And the sooner Gayface figures them out the better."

"Why do you think you know everything?" Finn shouted, stomping his foot against the sidewalk because, damnit, it was too hot for this. "Who gave you the instruction manual for everything? Because I'd seriously _love_ to see it."

"_Shut up_, Finn. I have the biggest fucking headache and I am not in the mood for your peace and love bullshit." Puck rubbed his forehead, teeth gritted and face twisted in annoyance.

Finn shook his head. "You have no right."

"_I don't have a fucking right_?" Puck suddenly roared, his head snapping to the side so he looked directly at Finn, his eyes blazing. "Don't fucking _tell me _my rights, asshole. It's called freedom of speech." He fumbled to his feet, struggling with the keys in his pocket. "I was doing that kid a favor. You and him and all of you losers all have this bright and sunshiny idea about the world and its so _wrong_ you have no fucking clue. You think Hummel could walk around like he does anywhere else? You think its okay for him to be so fucking flaming when he knows its gonna push people's buttons? Then he starts whining about it? Are you fucking kidding me? This isn't some political correctness seminar, Hudson. This is life and life has rules, and the first rule is that you don't start thinking everyone's gonna love you when your everything they hate. Get your head out of your ass and smell the coffee, sunshine. No one gives a shit."

With that, Noah Puckerman threw his car door open, jammed the key into the ignition and left Finn Hudson sitting outside Breadsticks with a dumb look on his face.

* * *

Hey.

Hey.

You okay?

Yes.

You have blood on your hands.

I forgot to wash them.

Yeah. There 'r some napkins in the glove box, if you wanna…

Yeah.

So I was thinking, your grades are pretty good, yeah? Why don't you just skip school for a couple days, get your head on straight.

My heads fine.

I know it is. It's just…I worry about you.

I know.

And you know I care about you, right?

Yeah.

I mean, if you wanna go to school, that's fine, that's on you. But if you just wanted to rest up and all that, I'm not gonna stop you.

Whatever.

Because, I'll be honest, Kurt, your not lookin' too hot.

Thanks.

I mean it.

I know.

And now I hear bout you at the hospital-

It wasn't for me.

I know, but-

It was some other kid and I just happened to be there to call the ambulance. It has no reflection on my well-being whatsoever.

But we both know _why_ you were there to call the ambulance.

…

And we both know why that kid _needed _the ambulance.

…

I don't want that to be you.

Stop talking, dad.

What?

Just please shut up.

* * *

**A/N The sort of "guideline" for this particular chapter is from Fearful Little Things' fic, "The Rules". At least, the "rules" diatribe. It's a really good story and if you like this one, you'll **_**love**_** that one.**

_**I abuse the italicize. **_


	12. staring at emotion

"_I'm on my way down"_

-Marilyn Manson, "The Minute of Decay"

* * *

Kurt was five when he heard it.

It was a family gathering of sorts, the Hummel's all gathered in his uncle's yard with beers and lemonade and barbeque. Kurt had planted himself firmly in a little circle with all his female cousins, playing with dolls and putting the frilly paper coasters laid out on the tables on their heads. He had thrown off his new Adidas running shoes to display the sparkling purple socks he'd swapped with a girl in his class (he had to forfeit a tube of his mother's lipstick in the exchange, but look how _shiny_ they were!). And one of his older cousins, a Todd or a Stephen that he didn't talk to anymore, came up and snatched the sole of Kurt's foot. He fell back, his leg raised far above his head and his jacket gathering at the base of his chin.

"Hey," his cousin Linda protested, "let him go!"

Kurt used his other foot to kick blindly at the air, trying to gain some control over the situation because even at this age he knew only bad things could happen when you were forced to the ground.

"Look how stupid you look," the older boy jeered, shaking his ankle and bending it forward. "Your wearing _girl_ socks."

"_Ow_!" Kurt cried out as his leg was bent farther then his muscles would allow. "Leggo! I am _not!"_

"You so are!" he laughed, shaking Kurt's leg more. "They're all sparkly-what're you, a _fag_ or something?"

Kurt didn't know what the word meant, but the same thrill passed over his cousin's face when he said it as any other boy's who had said a bad word. The way he said it, like it was the worse thing a kid could be without being dead, made Kurt's stomach flop.

His other cousin, and apparently the big kid's sister, jumped up and gasped. "I'm telling mom!"

"What did you say?" came a sudden shout and all Kurt saw was a large figure loom over him and his foot was released. He tried to gather himself, fumbling into a sitting position to see his father, holding the other boy by the crook of the armpit. His face was red, the same red he was when his truck got stolen.

"Get your hands off my boy," Kurt's Uncle Sam roared, and two were suddenly in a battle of words. Something about him, something about his cousin, something about influences. The only thing he really, truly heard was:

"Where does your kid get off calling my _son_ something like that"

"Come on, Burt. He _is_ wearing girl's socks for chrissakes-"

Kurt's father threw his fist back and swung.

His mother and his aunt, standing at the sides of their respective husbands, both cried out.

"Teach your kid some damn manners, Sam," Burt growled, marching over to Kurt, pulling him to his feet and dragging him away, his wife close behind as a hush spread through the barbeque. They walked to the car, and Kurt never did get his shoes back.

* * *

People didn't like him. Kurt knew this. They didn't like his face or his body or his clothes or his entire existence and he thought he had excepted that until all of a sudden, for the first time since he was five, he was actually afraid of what this dislike could do to him.

* * *

-oh, wait, another thing.

These memories, this time spent alone in his room with nothing but DVDs and Cds and books, left him to think too long and too much and now what could he do but cry like a girl, cry like a boy who would dare kick off his running shoes to show off his sparkly socks? He couldn't do anything as each insult, each shove and kick and demeaning force, for the first time since he was too young to see over the counter, caught up with him, hit him full force piece by piece like individual bullets. He winced, he shook his head, he pounded his fist against his pillow, he paced he jumped he scowled but they kept coming at him, turning him red with anger, humiliation. He hit himself, smacking his palm to his temple. Small grunts escaped his throat, weaning like that of a Banshee before his face finally fell and he cried, right there in the middle of his room. He didn't make a sound, just let hot tears burn trails down his cheeks, let his shoulders bounce and let his knees rest against his carpet. He slumped over and, no, he hadn't excepted it, not really, because he hadn't thought about it. You can't accept something if you don't acknowledge it's existence.

* * *

_Please leave a message after the beep._

Hey, baby. It's 'Cedes. Me n' Tina and Brittany and, well, most of us are coming over. Haven't seen ya'll in for_ever_, babe! What's it been, like a whole day in a half? I could hardly dress myself this morning-ha, right, Tina jacked her mom's copy of _Chicago_ and I figure we can mess around with my solo-And, you know, we don't have to talk about…anything, if you don't want to. Just gonna hang, you know? So make yourself decent cause we pretty much there…see ya in five, white boy.

* * *

**A/N Yeah, that was short. Review?**


	13. in the light of day

__

"A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,  
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;  
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,  
As much or more we should ourselves complain."

-William Shakespeare

"_There's beauty in the breakdown."_

-Frau Frau

* * *

Puck drove down the freeway with the loudest noise he could find screaming at him through his impressive speakers. He banged his head back and forth, up and down, not so much in rhythm with the music but in his attempt to ward off all unnecessary and/or uncomfortable thoughts from his otherwise neutral stream of consciousness.

Where did that kid get off, telling him what was right and who was wrong? In Puck's opinion, anything his mother hadn't already told him wasn't important enough to learn. And she definitely had not taken him aside at any time during his playground bullying days and teach him the importance of sensitivity. She had taught him _kill_ or be _killed. _Okay, so not that exact wording, but it was implied.

Besides, isn't that was Hummel had told Berry? Translated it from German or Canadian or something and said it, right there. Besides, anyone who looked at him could tell he hadn't had an easy time with jack shit. Fuck, Puck had been the one to give him his first dumpster dive. He knew, and Puck knew. So why didn't Finn?

He's too soft. That's what that is. His mom was too easy on him.

* * *

"Is Kurt here?"

Burt stood with the door barely opened, staring out at the circle of teenagers assembled at his doorstep. Which, it should be noted, included a skinny boy in a wheelchair, and Burt was nearly one hundred percent positive his home _wasn't_ wheelchair accessible.

"I didn't know he was, uh, expecting anybody…" He blinked again because, upon further inspection, he realized this was the oddest group of people he'd seen since that one time he passed a gay pride parade when he was fifteen.

A cheerleader, chewing at both a strand of blond hair and her manicured pinky finger, looking a bit to intently at something to her right. A gothic Asian girl with a blinding smile. Two football players, one caramel skinned and one Asian, both grinning sheepishly and bouncing slightly. Mercedes at the front, holding a grocery bag, car keys wedged between her fingers.

"Dad."

Burt spun around to see Kurt in jeans and a-was that a _tshirt_? With a _sports logo _on the chest?

"Hope you don't mind," his son said apologetically, gesturing at his friends at the door. "We, uh, apparently have the biggest basement in Lima."

"Yeah," Burt said quickly, shaking his head and adjusting his hat. "No, yeah, it's no problem. Just don't, you know, make a mess or anything…"

Kurt waved a dismissive hand and Burt was suddenly pushed aside by the kids as they formed a stampede, past Kurt and towards the basement door. He heard their feet smack at the carpet, gradually fading in the sound of chips being ripped open and the TV flicking on. Even though Kurt himself had lagged behind, lingered at the doorframe and looked down the steps, presumably at the room below him. His eyes glazed over, flickered like he was spinning in and out of focus.

Burt cleared his throat. "You sure your up for this?"

Kurt, in a very un-Kurt-like manner, scratched the back of his head. "I guess I kind of have to be."

Looking around, at the dry dirt footprints on his hardwood floor and the disturbance of the place mat, Burt felt a twinge of sympathy. Kurt, despite his apparent blunt nature, would never tell his friends something they really, truly didn't want to hear. For their piece of mind, he would fake it.

"I could tell them to leave," Burt suggested. "I don't mind being the bad guy, y'know? I could just tell 'em your grounded or something…"

Kurt shook his head and placed a hand at the arch of the doorway. "They'll leave soon. Mercedes and Brittany have a Bio paper due Monday."

He went down the stairs, his footsteps so light the sound only lasted the first two steps until the sound was lost to his friends' laughter. So much for sound proof.

* * *

How are they so happy right now?

How can anyone be anything but swimming in misery when people like Kurt can just be picked off like pigs in a slaughter pen? How can they be laughing so goddamn loudly when Kurt, their humble host, had obviously done something _terrible, _something that deserved this kind of torment and this kind of heartache and this kind of pain and fuck you if you think he's being dramatic. He doesn't know any other way and even if he did, it hurt, damnit.

It hurt to smile and laugh and mock Lindsay Lohan's fashion selections when a pressure was growing in his chest, like a heart attack, eating him until there was nothing left. He couldn't breathe _he couldn't breath_.

Before he knew how or why suddenly his karaoke machine was on and Mercedes was belting out her solo, that song from Chicago that was a more than slightly offensive selection for their token black girl. The only ones not participating were himself and Brittany, who leaned back next to him and stared at her hands.

If Kurt had not been in such a state, he would have noticed the redness of her eyes and the hardness of her lips and the disarray of her uniform. He did, however, notice it when she said;

"I think I'm quitting glee."

And Kurt knew why; why wouldn't you, with the stigma it came with. The fact that Kurt himself was part of the offending club only worsened the tension between glee and the rest of the world. He poisoned show choir's good way. He thought this without an ounce of self-pity, because everyone could tell him this wasn't true till they were blue in the face but he knew as well as anyone that, as the only boy in Lima, Ohio with a fashion sense, he was a dead man walking and anyone beside him was guilty by association. So he didn't ask Brittany what caused this rash decision, he only nodded and smiled weakly and looked ahead, at no particular thing. Because, in all honesty, if it were him he wouldn't want reassurances either.

* * *

**A/N The title is being changed to **_**We Are Golden **_**by the next chapter. Any objections? Speak now or forever hold your peace.**


	14. i was running

"It happens fast for some people and slow for some, accidents or gravity, but we all end up mutilated." **Chuck Palahniuk, **_**Invisible Monsters**_

"Every now and then I fall apart. And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever." **Total Eclipse of the Heart, **_**Bad Reputation**_

* * *

Will stared at the empty choir room.

This was not unusual; he often stopped by in between classes, breathed in the stale sweat and lingering oils from the abandoned instruments piled up in the back. It may not sound like the greatest combination in the world, but to Will Shuester it was better then a new car.

The truly _unusual_ part was that it was fifteen minutes after the last bell on a Wednesday afternoon. And not a single student. Not one.

He fingered the pile of sheet music he had printed out the night before, glancing at the clock and wondering if, perhaps, this was some sort of elaborate set up for another spontaneous number in celebration of a yet-to-be-announced competitive win. A field trip, perhaps? Maybe it had been an early dismissal and Will hadn't gotten the memo?

Or maybe, Will thought. Maybe he had finally lost his kids to teenage brutality.

* * *

Kurt was, without a doubt, in the throes of depression.

His mornings were spent dragging himself out of bed, getting ready and unready, changing outfits every beat only to fling the ensembles across the room and sinking back into his covers. He would slam his palm into his clock radio, turning to a rock station and swimming in the senseless thrashing of hair metal. He had not moisturized in days, he had not brushed his teeth or combed his hair or-my god, his _cuticles_.

He considers, every morning, getting back up and applying the appropriate amount of hairspray and pick out a fabulous sweater to throw over his skinny body and walking out that door with his head held high. Then he considers Brittany, sitting in her Cheerios uniform and a pair of flip flops because her only pair of sneakers are ripped to shreds. And he considers the janitor mopping slushie off the ground and Puck getting socked in the face and the spray paint on his locker and then he thinks, why bother? Why bother slapping on his favorite jeans when all they would earn him was a fist in the gut? Why get himself together when it would only dump a pile of shit on his friend's shoulders?

Why the _fuck _should he?

So every morning his father would tiptoe down the steps and ask him, gently, if he was ready for school. He would burp out a half-hearted cough and Burt would nod, hesitating at the foot of the stairs before dragging himself towards the kitchen, where he would call the school and tell them Kurt had a stomach flu and, no, he probably won't be in school tomorrow, either.

* * *

Mercedes and Tina sat at a local café, homework spread out on the table in front of them and the soft notes of easy listening filling their ears. It was Saturday afternoon, a week after the last time they had seen any part of Kurt Hummel. Mercedes remembered vividly, creeping out of his basement and offering one last, lingering smile. As if to reassure him, yeah, it's a hard-knock life and all that. But in the end it'll just be a story they'll tell to their rich Hollywood friends in their vacation house in Hawaii. How someone actually thought Versace was a sports brand. _Ha!_

His phone was off, his seat was empty. He was in his room whenever Finn's mom came to pay Burt a visit. Tina was always greeted with a, _sorry, he's contagious_. Even though Burt looked like he didn't believe it either.

And no one had bothered with glee this week. How could they? They couldn't even speak to each other, let alone screech show tunes in the choir room.

There was a tension in the air, a fear radiating through the less socially fortunate. Word got around fast and overnight, jock noise became like bullhorns, while everyone else became whispers, with their heads ducked and their books held tightly to their chests, subconsciously traveling in pairs.

It was kind of like Nazi Germany, if not too audacious a comparison.

Mercedes sipped from her drink and took out her phone again, staring at the group picture she'd set as her background. It was kind of like looking at a dead baby these days.

"'Cedes?" Tina said quietly, holding her pen on the tip of her thumb absently.

"Hm?"

"Why do we let them get to us?"

Mercedes shrugged. "Because they're really good at it."

* * *

Brittany was ironing.

If you had told anyone outside of her immediate family, they would have scoffed at the thought of their resident idiot doing anything more complicated then going to the bathroom. But it was probably the only thing she could stand beside cheer. It was simple, clean, with the vague threat of permanent scarring that was just out reach. She ironed.

It was a golden, sparkling dress fresh out of the bag, untouched since Regionals. She had stared at it every day since then, loving and hating every fiber in it's clothe. She wanted to wear it to school, to practice, to glee, to the dentist. She wanted to burn it.

It was so pretty.

Maybe if she died her hair black, got that nose job her mother had been riding her about since third grade, gained twenty pounds…maybe then she could wear it. If she was someone else, she could wear it. She could hold hands with Santana in the halls and squeal like a pig and paint her nails orange even though she _so_ wasn't a Fall. She could do anything.

Anything in the world, and she'd still probably be a cheerleader.

She was ironing.

* * *

Kurt wondered if dogs could be gay.

It started with a joke on a talk show.

"…_so I basically walked in on this dog…_orgy_, and-"_

"_Wait, so was there any homosexual dogs involved?"_

_Hahahaha…ha._

He even googled it; could dogs be gay? Could animals at all be gay? Or was it just humans? Confused, misguided humans fucked up by _emotion_-they were taking up the whole world. They didn't need to survive, they didn't need to fight. So they could fall in love and became like Kurt. Kurt, the freak of nature, the perverted piece of shit. Kurt, who loved everyone he shouldn't.

Dogs weren't gay. Dogs were awesome.

Kurt wanted a dog.

* * *

**Author's Note: Ohmygod I'm **_**so**_** sorry. That took forever.**


	15. from the things that'd you say

From the voice mail of **Kurt Hummel**

(or) interlude.

* * *

"I promise, that one day, everything's going to be better for you." **Donnie, **_**Donnie Darko**_

* * *

_Please leave a message after the beep._

Hey, Kurt. It's Rachel. Berry.

Been a rough few weeks, huh?

I don't really know what I should be saying. I don't even know why I'm calling. We've never really gotten along and I know I'm not your favorite person in the world but it feels like this is the…I don't know. The one thing we can connect on.

Boys are stupid. People are stupid in general, I know, but boys kind of take the cake. All of the stupid decisions in history have been because of some boy or another. Really, if we had a woman president things would be a lot better…alright, that's not the point.

Let me start again.

Boys are stupid, and I know the ones in our school have been giving you a hard time. They've given me a hard time, too, even though I'm more well endowed then half the cheerleading team. Boys have always been more close-minded, and that's a fact. They're used to being in control and they like it that way, and change of any kind threatens it, that control. So they have to tear it apart and they have to make sure it never puts itself back together…

God, you're a boy. What am I saying?

I guess I forget sometimes.

Look, I'm not used to heart to heart conversations, especially not on the phone. But your in trouble, you haven't been in school, everyone's saying your just…dead. Inside, anyway. And I was sitting in my room and thinking about you and me and how wrong it is, what they're doing to you and what they did to me and what they do to everyone. It's not fair and I _know_ that, and I wish I hadn't given you such a hard time about Finn or that stupid solo because…no matter what, I'll always have an easier time. There are more straight boys then gay ones and I'll always have more options then you will and no one will ever hate me because of who I love like they will with you and I can't stop thinking about how you haven't been to school in almost a week and what might have happened and what's been happening and…

I need to shut up.

You're a great kid. You don't need to be anything but that. You don't have to try to change yourself for anybody. Your not hurting anyone. And you don't deserve this. No one does. You don't have to call me back, but talk to someone. Don't let those meat heads win.

Okay, so…bye.

* * *

**A/N I wrote this around chapter two for some mysterious reason and I thought there's been kind of a lack of Rachel in the story thus far. I always kind of felt like she and Kurt have been the ones who are most connected, just because they're both really isolated and both really huge divas. Anyway, if you feel like it doesn't really fit with the flow of the story let me know.**


	16. we are not what you think we are

_"I dream. I dream I'm floating on the surface of my own life. Watching it unfold. Observing it. I'm the outsider looking in**." **_**Dexter Morgan, **_**Dexter**_

"_You don't understand how damaged we really are! You don't understand how evil we really are!" _**Hole**

* * *

Okay, okay. You are having a heart attack. That's okay.

This is what Kurt was thinking, over and over, sitting at his desk, Barbra on full blast. Clutching his chest. Oh my god.

His phone lay, open, text mid-sentence, buzzing with incoming messages and added to the cluster of noises coming at him from the walls, the TV upstairs, the _Funny Girl _soundtrack and the thump of his own heartbeat.

He breathed deeply, too deeply, could he OD on oxygen? He was OD'ing, he knew it. Did he take too much aspirin, too much of those blue ones, not enough of those green ones? Was he stricken with face cancer? Was the baldness of his head leaving him exposed to double the bacteria? Was he dying, was he dead, was he undergoing the reasonably painful transformation from corpse to zombie? He didn't know, he didn't know.

_Kurt_, his phone asked him. _R u ok?_

He was having a heart attack.

* * *

Tina and Mercedes yapped happily as they scoped out Mike Chang's BMW in the parking lot. Music sheets out, practicing runs and debating the difference between soul and R&B. They finally found it, big and so not economy friendly, pedaling towards them. Mike smiled down at them, inviting them inside, where they would continue their conversation and pretend, with all their might, they weren't all sporting lost-and-found t-shirts, bundles of slushie-coated blouses and jerseys stuffed in their bags.

* * *

They parked on the curb, greeted by a greasy Burt Hummel hunched over the hood of a truck, wiping oil off his hands with a ratty cloth before adjusting his hat, glancing up at the teens. They all mustered up their brightest smiles, latching on to these small moments of normalcy.

"Hey, Mr. Hummel," Mercedes chirped, climbing out of the car's passenger seat, leaving everything but her songbook on the dashboard. "How's the truck coming along?"

Burt's eyes were flat, though his grin was wide. "It's coming. Lookin' for Kurt?"

Tina slid out of the back seat as Mike yanked his keys from the ignition. "Yeah, we were going to run through some of the songs he missed for glee."

Burt nodded absently, façade flickering like a candle under a sprinkler. He jerked his head towards the house. "Well, you know where to find him."

Mike stuffed his hands in his pocket, significantly less pseudo-enthused as the other girls because, despite everything, he didn't want to be around Kurt right now. Not like this, pale and skinny and dangerously close to breaking down, so much so that tension hung around his skin like body heat. Mike himself felt his will to live decrease just by being on the same street as him.

But he soldiered on. It helped that Tina took him by the cuff and dragged him inside.

* * *

Mercedes loved Kurt like a brother. She knew him inside and out, his habits, his rituals, his ticks and tocks and, most importantly, his drastically altering moods. She could sense his distress from a single text message, his joy before he even walked into the room. It was all tattooed on his cheek for her; right for the reading.

When she reached the base of the stairs, the rock in her gut grew into a boulder, a chainsaw, ripping and shredding. She immediately recognized Streisand, melodic and sorrowful, through the curtains acting as the last layer to Kurt's sanctuary. Tina's breath at her neck, she pulled it open.

* * *

There was a dragon in his room, breathing fire in his lungs. He could feel it, rough scales scraping away at his paper-like skin, ripping him apart, ripping out his heart, stomach, liver, his very sanity. He paced, rushed from one side of the room to the next, trying to escape it's stifling hold, it's jagged claws, it's eyes - fixed on him like he were a pile of particularly interesting dog shit. It hurt, it hurt and he couldn't breath.

_What was Mercedes doing here?_

It would hurt her, she would hurt him, they all be hurt, killed, dead like chickens in a slaughterhouse all because of him, all because they were with him and it wanted him dead and they got in the way and he wouldn't, he would take it alone because they didn't deserve it too, they didn't do what he did, _they didn't do anything wrong._

"Get out," he screeched at her, at them, at Tina and Mike and how many were there? He couldn't tell, couldn't see past the blur of his vision, the hellfire licking his skin, couldn't hear past the rapid beating of his heart, of the walls bursting beneath their surface. His senses were shot but for the ache, the weight on his chest, the rock in his throat. He was done, so were they. No, they weren't. They were here. They couldn't be. They couldn't see him like this, couldn't be here when he was taken, stabbed and burned and killed. They couldn't, no no _no_. "_GET OUT."_

* * *

**Author's Note: So, first chapter after the new season! Keep in mind this is probably going to stick with first season canon because, to be quite honest, I'm seriously doubting the reliability of the writers this time around (where did the blond kid go? And Charice? WTF?) **

**This chapter, I'm **_**REALLY**_** not sure about whatsoever. I say this a lot, but I feel like the pacing is so at a whack it's near-unintelligible. **


	17. AN

Dear readers,

Howsit? Hope none of you contracted AIDS or gave birth to a stillborn or…died. Those kinds of things happen in ten-ish months.

I realize I haven't updated at all since the new season started. This is partly because I'm rather disappointed in how things are progressing in the Glee universe, and partly because anything I could write in contingency with this story would be severely outdated in the general scheme of things. This is a sad yet unavoidable fact and why it will most likely never be finished.

Trust me, I feel like a douche for not finishing it (much like I do when I don't finish anything, which is all the time…) Reading through some of your reviews, I've noticed a lot of people are kind of emotionally invested in this shit. That might have changed since I last updated, but still. It doesn't seem fair to leave it off like I did.

I had this whole thing planned out in my head, including an entire document on my computer filled with quotes and the last chapter written out on the back of a math test. It's kind of tragic, but there you go.

If any of ya'll want to adopt this story, feel free to message me. Otherwise, you must make do with your memories.

Again, my bad.


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